


Pull On Your Ropes If You Love Being Free

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bondage, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coping with the Apocalypse, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley is Basically a Guardian Demon Now, D/s undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Shibari, Trauma and recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 01:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Sometimes you cope with the Apocalypse by getting into softcore bondage with an angel, drinking ungodly amounts of bubble tea and looking after all the Antichrists you've misplaced.





	Pull On Your Ropes If You Love Being Free

**Author's Note:**

> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings**

Crowley hated mornings the moment they were created. He would’ve filed a complaint to God via prayer, but they were no longer on speaking terms. He’s been agonizing through each and every morning that ever was, the birdsong and the sunshine, and later, traffic and alarms. 

He rolled down to the hardwood floor duvet and all, collapsed into a miserable heap as Aziraphale’s prized Pfeilkreuz clock kept ringing. The bookshop’s bedroom was far too small for such a clamour. He muted it with a drowsy snap, and groaned into the ringing silence.

No answer.

Aziraphale wasn’t there.

He fashioned a toga from the duvet, shook out his hair (shoulder-length again) and sauntered downstairs, ready for the glare of potential buyers. Let them stare: let the whole world know that Mr. A.Z. Fell was no longer single, that the Bentley parked in front of his little shop would remain there permanently (with or without a wheel clamp), that a certain Anthony J. Crowley did _not_ survive the Apocalmost to spend another thousand years apart from the principality who made life worth living.

“Aziraphale!” he called.

There was the safety issue to consider as well. Should the little shop catch on fire. You couldn’t fool a flock of angels or a swarm of demons without expecting ruthless reconciliation. It left him with this: that brief moment of dread before Aziraphale replied, before he could be assured that they were granted another day together.

“In here!” Aziraphale said. “By Creation Myths That Involve Far Too Many Eggs.”

Crowley hated mornings, yes. He hated the idea that he’d wake up one day, and Aziraphale would be gone.

“Your system makes no bleeding sense,” Crowley complained as he made his way through the maze of monographs, anthologies, incunabula and the odd grimoire.

“My system is beyond reproach,” Aziraphale said, sounding nearer. He probably hadn’t slept; had never really gotten into the habit. Crowley had fallen asleep on his chest while Aziraphale had read from _Kazohinia_ (in Esperanto), but he was a sneaky little bugger who could steal away without a trace and disappear into a dusty volume. There he was now: to the casual observer, it’d seem like he was perched atop a ladder, but one look at the book in his hand told Crowley he was at least six sacred hymns deep in the _Yasna_ again. 

“I had a nightmare,” he said, and it had the desired effect: Aziraphale directed all his attention to him. It was nearly blinding, like the sunrise, and warmed him just the same. He stood in the glow of it as Aziraphale set the battered copy aside, not even looking at what he was doing.

“Oh dear, the fire again?” he said.

Hellfire in Heaven. He walks into it, wearing Aziraphale’s skin. And it’s not working. His soul stands there as Aziraphale burns away. Down on Earth, the bookshop, the Bentley goes up in flames. The fire keeps spreading.

“I’m getting used to it,” Crowley shrugged, but inched forward. Craned his neck to stare up at Aziraphale. “Same damn dream every night since the Notocalypse. I’m not even sure it’s _technically_ a nightmare. Feels too real for that.” 

“How far did you get?” Aziraphale climbed a step down, facing him and bracing himself on the sturdy bookshelf. Crowley took a step up.

“I woke up before the planet melted, so that’s a great plus,” he said.

They met in the middle. Aziraphale cradled his face and looked into his unprotected eyes.

“We survived,” Aziraphale told him. “All’s well that ends well, isn’t it? Or, well—continues to be.”

“Best safety lies in fear,” Crowley grumbled. Still, it was always reassuring to hear a reminder of his persisting existence. Even more reassuring to lean in for a kiss, and have his wish granted: the soft press of Aziraphale’s lips, the taste of him (honey and ceylon tea), his closeness. How he filled every corner of Crowley’s consciousness. 

“I won’t allow anyone to hurt you” Aziraphale said, as he told him every time Crowley complained about nightmares. So he complained often. Let himself be kissed and soothed.

*

“But are you quite certain you want to leave Oxfordshire?” Aziraphale asked, concern clear in his quivering voice. Adam nodded, his curls bobbing. He was eighteen years old. The childish softness was mostly gone from his round face, but he still looked very much like his former self, even though his denim jacket was heavily decorated with political pins, his shoulders were sagging and his eyes had purple shadows under them. 

He was no longer a child, and no longer invincible. Just as fragile as any human. Crushable.

When he held his head a certain way—let the sunshine in St James’s Park cut him a sharper profile—he looked exactly like his father, the one he now never had.

“It’s not like I get to choose,” Adam said. “No art schools in Tadfield.”

“Oh right, you mentioned you were going to draw comics,” Aziraphale supplied helpfully. Squeezed Crowley’s hand a little tighter, maybe to make him contribute to the conversation. He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t quite look at good old Adam without seeing someone else.

“Hopefully.” Adam scratched his nose, squinting. “I have a Patreon, but y’know how it is. And like. It’s absurd, innit, a bit? The Antichrist, drawing comics.”

Lucifer Eveningstar was the most perfect among angels. If only he never had that squabble with Michael.

“I don’t think it’s absurd, dear boy, no.”

And then the Fall.

The sunlight had burnt his skin like sulphur. Sticky sulphur melting your wings, blinding you and running down your throat as you scream in pain, and you lose your voice and you can no longer sing praise.

“Dunno. I have weird dreams,” Adam said softly. He stopped to look at the duck island cottage. The representation of that pastoral idyll which he was so unlikely to have in the first place, much less _keep_.

“Weird in what way?” Crowley asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He sank his nails into the flesh of Aziraphale’s palm. It was answered by a soothing caress of a thumb.

“I see myself as Christ,” Adam said as he leant against the wooden fence barring him from Eden. Birds were calling in the distance. “I have a crown of thorns, and I have his wounds on my feet and palms.”

“That’s all right, then,” Crowley said, rather relieved. He took Adam’s wrist with his free hand, tapped on it. “They put the nails between the ulna and the radius. The hands look more PG on art, but they couldn’t support the weight of your entire body. So they went for the bones. Humans are very clever when it comes to how to kill each other.”

Adam looked at Crowley’s fingers on his pulse. “Am I that, though?” he asked. “Are you sure? Entirely human?”

“Of course,” Crowley said. “You made yourself that. In for a penny. It’s irreversible.”

Adam took his hand back. Shot an uncertain glance at Aziraphale, then looked back at Crowley. To this day, there was something unsettling in his gaze.

“I had the power to do anything,” he said, “and I gave it up, and missed my chance to make any difference, because now I’m just _human_.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Aziraphale said gently. “Sacrifices never are.”

“Did I do the right thing, you think?” Adam asked, voice breaking.

Crowley wanted to hug him. Put him back in the basket and take him away, hide him from suffering and guilt.

“It should be our job to know, shouldn’t it?” Aziraphale told him. He sounded like it was breaking him. “We’re an angel and a demon. We’re adults. And yet, we don’t have a single clue.”

They looked at the ducks in the pond. That was what the world was worth saving for: ducks sliding through the gleaming water. It was crucial to remember that. Crowley opened his mouth to tell Adam, but the moment passed: he’d turned away, and called for his dog.

An immortal hellhound that’d outlive him.

*

“So that was a tad depressing,” Crowley observed as he tossed his jacket to the battered sofa. Aziraphale hummed, gingerly placing his coat on the rack.

“Rather. The poor boy. I can’t imagine.”

“It’s not fair,” Crowley said. “We’re all messed up by something that didn’t even happen.” 

“Do you think he’ll be fine?”

“Eh. Humans always are.” He rolled up his sleeves carefully. Time seemed slower these days: a single moment could stretch into eternity, then reality (past and present and could-have-beens) rushed back in. He was looking at his forearm rather desperately, the pulseless veins, the too-white skin. He was still here. No holy water needed. No assurance.

“Are _you_ quite all right, darling?”

Not that kind, anyhow.

“I might need something,” Crowley said, curling his fingers, enthralled by their movement.

“The Ducru-Beaucaillou?”

“You.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Of course, love.”

*

Crowley couldn’t remember when exactly Aziraphale’s bedroom had become the safest place on Earth, but he could make an educated guess. The books scattered everywhere didn’t elevate the bohemian aesthetics, but Crowley liked them, because they belonged to Aziraphale; he liked the lanterns and the byzantine curtains, the abundance of pillows with mismatched patterns—each told a story of this charming person or that Aziraphale had met throughout the millennia. Crowley's favourite item was the rusty treasure chest by the foot of the queen-sized bed: Aziraphale opened it with reverence, and produced neat bundles of rope as Crowley waited on the mattress, stripped to his underwear.

“Which one would you prefer?” Aziraphale asked. It took Crowley a moment to look away from his delicate hands and survey the ropes instead, maroon-and-black, golden, tye-dyed and ombre, burgundy, vanilla, and the colour that caught his eye: a baby blue matching Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Blue,” he said, a bit breathless. It looked enticingly soft.

“Excellent choice,” Aziraphale agreed, putting the rest away. They’ve tested all of them. Some were returning guests. The discovery of their mutual interest in bondage had changed Crowley’s life for the better. Nothing proved to be quite as relaxing as being tied up and getting fucked slowly and thoroughly seven ways till Sunday. 

Aziraphale joined him in bed, kneeling on the mattress like he did, mirroring each other. Crowley wondered how far he wanted to take it—whether the Effort should be made, or if it was just the closeness he craved today. He watched Aziraphale fold the rope and feed it through a silver ring; the ease and grace as he looped the tails around the bight. This was his sleight of hand, not his tragic magic act.

“Let me,” Aziraphale said as he lay the ring on Crowley’s chest, guiding the tails behind his shoulders, then bringing them around front under the armpits. The rope whispered against his prickled skin; just the sound of it creaking and tightening made his tongue feel thick. Aziraphale knew what he was doing: there was a craftmanship to it that he very much appreciated. His eyebrows were adorably pinched in concentration. He was fully dressed, but without his jacket, and the sleeves rolled up. Crowley kept getting enthralled by his creamy forearms.

It was the oddest thing.

His attraction to him kept evolving. There was that period in the Roman baths where they were both bare-arsed on the regular, and it didn’t mean a thing, because everybody did it; then there was the eighteenth century, where a flash of Aziraphale’s wrists could make him melt, how they kept disappearing in the most delicate laces. His concept of intimacy changed like society did—there was no progression in it: it had always been chaotic.

He remembered the Renaissance, when they’d sleep in a pile with the tavern’s fellow guests, since private bedrooms were not readily available: how the smith snored and a family of eight kept hushing a fussy baby, and nobody cared about two gentlemen lying together, and a moment later (some hundred years, in fact; it seemed like a moment) they had to book separate rooms in the B&B that stood in the tavern’s place.

He remembered the time when it wasn’t polite to approach someone from their sword-bearing side, and the time when friends would stroll arm-in-arm; that delightful period when kisses were in fashion, a press of lips, and how readily Aziraphale agreed to do it; how Crowley hoped it might mean something—but then it was three kisses on the cheek, then one, then a handshake, then waving, a nod, and finally, _ciao_. How men were no longer writing sonnets to each other, and passionate letters—how humanity, time and time again, made an effort to complicate the already messy question of gender and sexuality, and doing anything that wasn’t considered simply platonic would’ve meant answering a frightening question: what are we?

Aziraphale hooked the rope-ends around his chest, his waist, creating the most exciting patterns. It felt like the hitches were keeping him together. Every time he so much as shifted, there they were there, pressing into his flesh, Aziraphale utterly focused on how to best arrange them.

They finally had a name for themselves.

“I miss bringing you flowers, angel,” Crowley said. “Remember when that was fashionable?”

Aziraphale squinted at him, delighted, eyes gleaming. “The green carnation I got from you.”

“Oh yes, that was very subtle. Don’t forget the roses. All one-hundred of them. Blood-red.”

Aziraphale bit his lips, and peered at his handiwork with a critical gaze. “I didn’t speak the language of flowers, I’m afraid. Lost in translation, as they say. You interpreted my ignorance as yet another rejection. If only—oh, how I wish—”

“What matters is that we’re here now,” Crowley said.

The name they had for themselves couldn’t be translated to English terms. It meant dearest, and mirror-of-my-soul; it meant something that was clearer than crystals, lustrous like stars, and far more precious, singular.

Enochian, the Angel-Tongue, was a very weird language.

(Crowley was starting to become self-conscious about his dialect. Like all demons, he spoke an archaic version; language change went right over your head if you hadn’t been in Heaven since forever.)

Aziraphale put his forehead to Crowley’s, the silky ropes tightening in his fists. The sensation was amazing, and impossible to ignore: the best kind of friction making his toes curl and his head swim. Aziraphale pressed his palm to his chest, rubbing at the ropes. Crowley moaned, throat hoarse, then laughed when he looked down: flowers spurted from where Aziraphale touched him.

“Pansies, really?”

“Southern pansies,” Aziraphale said proudly—but there was something desperate in his gaze, an eagerness to make the joke land, and a deep relief when Crowley laughed. He pulled on the ring and sought a kiss. Crowley met him happily, melting against his lips.

“Whatever should I do to you, darling boy?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Stay,” Crowley asked. “Just—be with me, maybe, please?”

*

The best thing about bondage (besides the epic orgasms, because Crowley wasn’t always in the mood for epic orgasms) was that the game didn’t have to end at _any_ point. There would’ve been an issue with circulation, if Crowley couldn’t control his bloodflow and if Aziraphale was less attentive; but as things stood, Crowley could do this indefinitely: kneel.

Kneel on the round velvet pillow Aziraphale picked for him, next to Aziraphale’s favourite rococo armchair, tied up, hands behind his back, head resting in Aziraphale’s lap as he played with his hair and did a crossword puzzle.

“Concoct, brew, seven letters, ends with a T,” Aziraphale read with emphasis.

“Ferment,” Crowley muttered. His head was empty. Completely. He heard the word echo in it, his tongue still wrapped around it, and Aziraphale’s hum—how it trembled in his belly—prompted him to reply with a pleased purr of his own.

“How do I keep forgetting that word?” Aziraphale mused. “Well-spotted, you clever thing.”

“Call me that again,” Crowley said. “Call me—seven letters, dearly beloved person, Australian river, romantic partner?”

“My clever darling,” Aziraphale praised, caressing the snake-mark with his thumb.

“Tamed animal? Three letters.”

“Such a good pet.”

“Something-for-the-taking, starts with Y, five—”

“Yes, you’re mine.”

Crowley smiled, quite pleased with himself, and closed his eyes.

*

He didn’t bother to put on a dressing gown. Bloody mornings didn’t deserve that kind of respect. He went to the bathroom naked as the day he was created, rope-marks standing out on his skin ( _very_ _unlike_ the day he was created). He squinted in the light pouring through the stained glass window, and pushed his hair out of his face.

Aziraphale was in his trusty striped pyjamas, brushing his teeth while levitating _Cardenio_ , a lost Shakespeare-play. (Well. It wasn’t exactly lost, was it. Aziraphale had it. He had about fifty other manuscripts in the bathroom he was particularly anxious to hide from potential buyers.)

“Why’d you—” Crowley mumbled, the rest lost to a yawn as he leant against the doorframe. Aziraphale looked him over, clearly appreciating the view for a moment before he turned back to Shakespeare with an innocent look on his face.

“You should try it someday,” he said.

“It’s more hygenic if you just miracle your teeth clean.”

“Feels amazing on the gums, though.”

Crowley considered that for a moment. He had no counter-argument. Aziraphale bent down to spit, as if to demonstrate the absolute thrill of brushing your teeth, and promptly stained his shirt. “Oh, bother!”

“Aw, angel.” Crowley pulled a face in mock-sympathy. Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him: he was shooting desperate glances at _Cardenio_ while attempting to rub off the toothpaste, smearing it all over the collar in the process. Crowley could only watch him fuss for exactly sixteen seconds before actual sympathy kicked in, stronger than expected. He ached for him. “Come here,” he muttered.

He knew what this was about, all right.

Aziraphale always loved to read. He was never _obsessed_ with it.

Since the Armageddon’t, Crowley watched him re-read old favourites in a frenzy, hoard the kind of flimsy paperbacks he wouldn’t even touch before, get hyperfixated on niche themes and genres.

The world almost ended, and he hadn’t read all the books yet.

Crowley blew on the stain and watched it dissipate. His gaze found the dog-eared manuscript.

“I always liked that bit about the windmills,” he said softly.

“It’s brilliantly funny, isn’t it? I was going through it in my head and realised I couldn’t quite recall the soliloquy; imagine that! Good Will’s words getting lost in this old coconut!” Aziraphale hit his forehead, rather sharply. Crowley got hold of his wrists.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t remember Kempe recite the entire damn thing,” he said.

Aziraphale frowned—a dark cloud passing over his brows, then his eyes lit up, bright like the sun. “But of course I can! Right, yes—every line that comes next—the lived experience versus the text...and Will’s handwriting has always been so _messy_! No wonder I get lost in it, it’s a maze.” He pulled a face, then gave the manuscript a relieved look. It floated down atop a pile of plays gentle like a feather. 

Crowley smirked to himself, and pulled back, mission accomplished, but Aziraphale reached for him. Captured a shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know where I’d be without you, dear.”

“In Heaven,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale’s thumb was pressing down on a delicious bruise. It had to be intentional.

“No nightmares tonight?” Aziraphale asked. “I stayed by your side until sunrise, you didn’t even stir once.”

“Was too blissed out to freak out.” He nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck. He smelled of toothpaste. Obviously. “Woke up before they lit the fire.”

“Mmm, shall we keep up the experiment, then?”

“For strictly scientific purposes. Might get home late, so do wait up, please. Don’t let me go to sleep without at least a spanking.”

Aziraphale raised a finger. “Hold that lovely thought. Are you going out today?”

“It’s Warlock’s Fourth of July extravaganza,” Crowley said, slightly embarrassed, and lowered himself to the tub’s brim. (It had lion claw legs and everything. Also, a bunch of books in it.)

“Dear Warlock!” Aziraphale put a hand over his heart with a sigh. “How’s the little rascal?”

“Up to no good, I reckon.”

“Oh, that’s—good. For you.”

“Not quite.” Crowley scrunched up his nose while Aziraphale took a seat on the almanacs piled on the toilet. He tilted his head, listening intently. Crowley avoided his gaze as he set out to explain, “I checked on him on Tik Tok, okay, and he keeps posting about how mental this party's gonna be.”

“Tik Tok is like M-S-N,” Aziraphale said.

“No, not at—whatever. I uh.” He rubbed his nose. “With Adam, we take it for granted that he’s our responsibility, right? Our charge. But Warlock was _first_. He could’ve been a normal boy, then Heaven and Hell came along. Now he’s _too_ normal. And what do normal teenagers do when they’re left without parental supervision?”

“Get pregnant?” Aziraphale supplied unhelpfully.

“Get pissed. And when they’re pissed, they do stupid things. I just, erhm. I want to keep an eye on him. I won’t stop him from doing anything evil, but stupid? I can’t abide _stupid_. I won’t stand for it.”

Aziraphale squinted at him, smiling. “Look at you. Turning into a proper guardian demon.”

Crowley opened his mouth to object, but realised he didn't mind the term. It was better than godfather, anyway. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think I _am_ that. Watching over mankind with my flaming hand crank.” He cleared his throat. “Wanna tag along?”

“Ah, I wish I could! I promised to take Madame Tracy to KinkFest UK.”

Crowley let that sink in. “Gotta feel bad for her,” he said, “that she has to borrow _my_ partner, because her own is useless.”

“Oh, come off it. The Sergeant will come around. I’m happy to accompany her; she said she’d feel safer with a man—I tried to explain my sex, but oh well.” He shrugged, good-humoured.

“So we’re both on guardian duty today, then,” Crowley summarised.

“I shall be on standby for you—just call me should the situation escalate at Warlock’s party.” Aziraphale reached for him, and Crowley let him cup his face. Closed his eyes in anticipation of a kiss that had become so normal, so everyday—but never mundane. He enjoyed it just the same as he did their first kiss under an apple tree, the streets paved with stars and a nightingale singing.

*

The party was not quite as advertised. It was a pool party, like Crowley had feared, but the kids (there were about thirty of them, manageable) all seemed to agree that it was far too chilly to paddle. They hung around the BBQ, lazed on the sunbeds, chinwagged, and queued for drinks to Crowley, who was the only one of drinking age.

The original bartender, someone’s shady older brother, had caught a last minute stomach bug and the dancing plague for good measure. Crowley made sure Warlock saw an ad about Crowley’s bartending services and mentioned he didn’t ask for ID because “IDs are for wankers.” He was a tad disappointed Warlock had booked him.

He blended in nicely in mesh and leather, and even though most humans interpreted him to be about forty, the minors didn’t mind his supposed age as long as he kept the booze coming. He did: the White Russian and the Gin Fizz contained about as much alcohol as the beer, which had zero percent in it. The kids didn’t notice: they were under the influence—just the demonic sort. They were getting shitfaced on virgin cocktails. It was very evil of Crowley. If they ever found out, they’d have been _so_ humiliated.

Warlock was feeling the buzz: he was as loud and outspoken as he’s always been, even more so since his parents’ divorce. He had a whole grunge aesthetics going with lots of plaid and his hair hanging in his face. He looked a bit lost in his too-big clothes, ill-fitting like the mantle of the Antichrist.

Crowley wasn’t sure if it was regret or pity he felt as he watched him loiter around, talking to each guest but unable to really engage with any of them. He was the luckiest survivor of the Apocalisn’t—things could’ve gone terribly wrong for him, but now he was here, in one piece, and the worst thing he had going on was a demon sabotaging his party. 

Crowley watched for any signs of abnormality, mostly out of habit; he used to hope Warlock would do something truly heinous _and_ heroic, demonstrate the impact of influence—now he rooted he didn’t, that they hadn’t messed up a kid for the rest of his life. That’d be the kind of consequence Adam couldn’t have miracled away. Something that had been weighing on Crowley, even though he was not _supposed_ to feel guilt. 

As he observed Warlock from behind his sunglasses, he noticed a pattern: he kept returning to a girl in a Ravenclaw shirt. Crowley remembered her from stalking Warlock’s followers: Hyunjung, nineteen, super into YA novels.

“Oh no,” Crowley mouthed as Warlock walked up to her once again, Long Island Tea in hand (contents: ice, tea) and a woozy smile plastered on his face. Crowley knew that look. The poor bastard had it _bad_. Out of all people, he’d fallen for a nerd, and Crowley reckoned that he thought she’d never give him the time of the day, that she was at best tolerating him, all the while confident that he was the hot shit, and if only she noticed… and she did, it was clear, and Warlock must’ve known it, but of course he’d cling to the idea that he was misreading the signs, because that was safe, and that way when betrayal came, he wouldn’t be hurt by it, wouldn’t mind the girl telling him that she was done fraternizing, or that their friendship had been a mistake, _six-thousand year_ s, because Armageddon was coming and she’d have to put on her kilt and report to angel duty—

None of that would really matter.

What would matter would be the flames. When Heaven found her out, because he tempted her to be reckless, didn’t think it would _matter_ , but the angels would make her walk into a pyre, and if Warlock have interpreted the prophecy wrong, she’ll be incinerated, _he_ could’ve lost Aziraphale, he could have been burned away, falling into ashes like he never existed, and the Almighty would still not raise a finger—

It was silly, but Crowley had half expected Her to walk in; She must’ve known he was wearing Aziraphale’s skin, but still, She should’ve made sure she wouldn’t lose Her only good angel, even if She was ready to give up the world, because Aziraphale was worth so much than the Earth, and She must’ve known that when She created him.

Crowley’s hands were trembling. He nearly dropped the bottle of blue curacao: it was slippery with condensation. He caught it, faster than a snake strikes its prey, and the kids cheered.

He didn’t quite hear it.

He was staring at the pineapples, unseeing, going through the recipe on autopilot, because his mind was doing two hundred kilometres per hour, and he couldn’t stop it, he was about to collide with his worst fears just because he saw two lovey-dovey teenagers chatting, and he couldn’t _stop_ himself, there were no breaks, they’ve melted away, he was just imagining everything, he was imagining _today_ , but Gabriel would snap his fingers and he’d wake up in Aziraphale’s body, and the Archangels would say, _it’s you, isn’t it, Crawly? I can’t believe Aziraphale let a demon possess him, let you touch him, how dis_ gus _ting—_

And Crowley wanted God to enter and save the day, because that was the _deal_ , wasn’t it, that you go through all this shit because She’ll be there for you in the end and make it worth your while with mercy and rewards, but She was nowhere. 

He wanted Her to smite down Gabriel and the rest, to show Her vengeance, come down with her floods and rain of blood, thunder and hail, come to judge them all, Aziraphale didn’t even have a trial, or—

If that was asking too much, She could’ve just be there, invisible, not the Mother but the Holy Spirit, a whisper in his ear that this was the Plan, that She was looking out for them—

Last time Crowley’d been in Heaven, She’d been there too, or, at least, he thought She was, you couldn’t see Her, of course, you never heard Her voice, you floated around the Crystal Orb and sang psalms and you supposed someone was listening, otherwise it would’ve been fucking silly, but Crowley thought he felt Her presence, he really believed that, he just had concerns—

(When he fell he thought he heard Her scream his name. Maybe he just imagined it.)

*

He slid out of the Bentley and on the brief walk to the bookshop deliberated what he was going to say. _I finally lost it_ , he’d confess to Aziraphale, _it happened, I went insane like in some blasted Shakespeare tragedy. Kudos for the irony, I always liked the comedies, the ones with the weddings, but that was never going to be my story, was it? It was not supposed to have any sort of happy ending._

Except as he stepped over the threshold, the bell jingling a familiar tone, his potted plants all around, and the scent of sun-soaked wood and old paper hanging in the air, his head cleared and the vise around his heart eased, almost instantly.

_(It’s everywhere. All over here. Love. Flashes of love.)_

He walked through the hard-wood floor as if it could collapse any minute and he’d be claimed by the Everlasting Fire, but nothing happened. He still had his Westminster flat—he could pop back to mope alone, come back to Aziraphale when he was back to his confident, irresistible self, when what he went through today could be laughing matter over dinner.

He set his jaw, grabbed the handrail and pulled himself up the stairs.

“Oh, you’re home early!” Aziraphale called from the bedroom, sounding pleasantly surprised, so that was that, there was no turning back, even though he was very tempted to crawl under a rock and just discorporate there.

“Have you ever partied with teenagers? It’s rubbish,” Crowley said. The last step: the bedroom door was open. He peeked in before entering, and his heart skipped a beat. Aziraphale was in bed ( _their_ bed; they slept together; they _fucked_ there), a book in hand ( _Tamerlane_ , first edition, signed "Fine, it was me" - E. A. Poe) and wearing what appeared to be a frilly—

“Nightgown?” Crowley sputtered. Aziraphale looked down at his chest, sheepish for a moment.

“Nightshirt,” he corrected. “I thought—this morning reminded me I’ve been wearing those pyjamas for a while now, and oh, this shirt is in perfect condition, why not just change up my wardrobe?”

“Ngh,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale fretted with a ruffle self-consciously. “You don’t like it?”

“I like it very much,” Crowley said. Stepped into the room, finally, the swagger returning to his defeated crawl. He stopped by the end of the bed, hands sunk into his pockets as he appraised Aziraphale. The duvet was around his shoulders like a snug pair of wings, the incredibly short nightshirt on display, soft thighs revealed, and that ankle, for Heaven’s sake—

“How was today?”

“I don’t wanna talk,” Crowley said in a suggestive tone. Aziraphale had the most shapely calves he’s _ever—_

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said, and made an exaggerated motion to zip up his lips.

“No, I—no. Keep talking, I like your voice, I’m just saying talking shouldn’t be the main event.”

“You like my voice?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head with calculated innocence.

“I never told you?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“I love your voice,” Crowley said, and he couldn’t even deny it, not with the way all that adoration bled into his trembling voice. Aziraphale made a smug face at the compliment, looked him over. Let his gaze linger and drag.

“You look very modern.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s lovely. Would you prefer to be naked?”

Crowley didn’t wait to be courted: reached back to tug off the shirt, then his hand was on the snakeskin belt as he climbed into bed. Aziraphale set the volume of poetry aside, kissed him soundly. Crowley could’ve forgotten himself in the moment, could’ve forgotten himself forever, could’ve pretended that this was the way of things as he cupped his cock and activated a dormant biology with its foreign instincts—but Aziraphale reached for his sunglasses. He waited for a consenting nod and pushed them up Crowley's forehead.

Crowley reckoned he looked panicked. Eyes all round and yellow, the pupils narrow.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Aziraphale asked, soft but stern. Crowley pulled back to sit on his heels, trousers open, chest bare—far too vulnerable.

“Make me forget,” he asked. He begged.

“If that’s what you need.”

Crowley closed his eyes, bowed his head. “Please.”

Aziraphale responded with a kiss to his forehead. The sunglasses were removed, but were placed on the bedside table within reach, should Crowley need them. He was staring at Aziraphale’s chest, hair curtaining his face, at ease on his knees—a familiar position now, an easy one, because whenever he submitted like this he could just let go of stuff, trust Aziraphale to take care of him.

The sudden rustle of paper jolted him. Aziraphale placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, and brought a giftbag to his field of vision. “Might have a little something to distract you.”

“Aw, you got me souvenirs?”

Aziraphale traced a rope mark over his collarbone, ring glinting. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Tempted by mere wordly artefacts,” Crowley tutted as he eagerly peered into the bag. There were two giftwrapped items in there. Aziraphale lay his head on Crowley’s shoulder while he opened them. There was a bundle of rope, black with silver glitter; he had to suck in a breath to avoid moaning out loud how good it felt against his skin, just as rough as he needed today. “We’re using this baby,” he announced, handing it to Aziraphale.

“It’s a set,” Aziraphale explained, nervously excited.

The second item was a dildo with matching colours, the splatter of stars forming a system, a discernable pattern—

“No,” Crowley mouthed. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Aziraphale said. “Alpha Centauri.” 

It was a bit silly to tear up while holding a heavy and fairly massive dildo, but it was the thought that counted—that Aziraphale, that sentimental bastard—

—the sentimental bastard who wasted no time tying him up, calves to thighs, and a rope-harness over his chest just for _entertainment_ , for Aziraphale’s aesthetic pleasure. He kept the nightshirt on, because of course he’d use everything at his disposal to drive Crowley wild, absolutely feral, writhing under him and canting his hips only to be soothed, to be told _hold still_.

How sweet it was to obey; to be good for Aziraphale (not _morally_ , but in every other way). He was high on it; he felt like he was floating, He was absolutely at Aziraphale’s mercy like this, and Aziraphale was _all about_ mercy. 

“How are we feeling?” Aziraphale asked him, slick fingers working him open. He never looked better, and that was a great compliment, since he always managed to be both adorable and _impossibly_ attractive, and Crowley just couldn’t look away.

“Have I told y’ about m’ favourite part in Hell?” he said, breath hitching.

“Oh dear, that bad, is it? Do you remember your safeword?”

“Mah _favourite_ part in Hell,” Crowley slurred. “‘Nnd my safeword’s scaramouch, but imma not using it now, keep goin’.”

Aziraphale waited a beat, rubbing at the stretched out rim. Crowley went a bit crossed-eyed at it. “Let’s hear about your favourite part in Hell,” he prompted.

Crowley licked his lips, suddenly unsure if he could speak at _all—_ the ropes and Aziraphale’s clever-clever fingers just felt splendid, and he was sluggish with it, but he wanted to tell it to Aziraphale, tell him about the floating—

“So ungh,” he began, eyelids drooping, “there’s Hell, all right, and it has nine—nine circles, yeah? You were in Limbo, that’s where the offices—that’s Limbo, and it’s ehh, it keeps gettin’ worse. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about—nine circles, and in the middle, the Pit. And that’s a massive design flaw, if you ask me, that’s what it is, they somehow overlooked it, because you have this narrow but deep deep pit going down and down and whenever I was just like bugger all, I’m out, I’d go to Limbo—oh fuck that feels sssso good.”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers again, rubbing at his prostate; Crowley squirmed in pleasure, then gaped as the ropes bit into his delicate skin.

“You would go to Limbo,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, I would, I’ddd—” Crowley licked his lips, and concentrated. This was important. Aziraphale was listening. He was so close, so deep, and Crowley was soaring. “I’d open my wings and just _drop_ ,” he said. “I’d just sorta freefall down the Pit. It burns, of course. The air is all smoke and sulphur and it _stinks_ , and then it’s cold, the sort of cold that eats at you and that’s how you know you’ve been falling for too long, and you do _not_ want to disturb Satan, so you fly the heaven back up, but for those moments—when you just fall—there’s nothing there. No Heaven. No Hell. Just you, and you...and you fall, but it’s not _the_ Fall, nobody gives you crap for it, you’re just falling minding your own business.”

“I’m so glad you had that,” Aziraphale said with a peculiar mix of joy, wistfulness and remorse. “As a—sort of corrective experience, for trauma.”

“‘Twasntyourfault,” Crowley garbled, clenching around his fingers in encouragement. “The Big Fall. The one that wasn’t—fun.”

“I wish I did something,” Aziraphale told him. “Wish I caught you.”

“Y’ didn’t even know.” Crowley rolled his hips invitingly. “You’ve got me now. Got y’rself a demon all tied up. Oh nooo. Whatever will you do? Reckon you’ll show me the error of my wicked ways.” He wiggled his eyebrows, making Aziraphale chuckle. He fetched the dildo, looked it over, then looked at Crowley’s sorry little hole.

“Well-well, old serpent,” he said. “There’s no way around it, I’m afraid. I shall show you Heaven’s might—” He held up the dildo like a flaming sword, face flushed. “Oh, this is _blasphemous_.” 

“You like that,” Crowley said lazily. “You do. Let’s say you—give me such a good dicking I’ll repent. Will be a transform’d demon.”

“I wouldn’t want to change you, ever.”

Something thudded in Crowley’s chest. “But you could try, for fun. ‘Promise I won’t change. Up for a cheeky little struggle? Doing the holy work?”

Aziraphale bit his lips, considering. When he looked up, there was something dangerously determined in his gaze. Crowley whined seeing it.

“I’ll give it to you so good,” Aziraphale threatened, “you won’t ever do evil, you’ll want it again so badly.”

“Try me,” Crowley hissed into his face. “I was never afraid of a thorough fuck.”

“You were a virgin until recently,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath as he eased the tip of the dildo in. Crowley squeezed around it with _dedication_ and fervour.

“Oh honey,” he said. “Not _this_ me. I’m an incubus in this scene.”

Aziraphale slammed the dildo all the way in.

*

Crowley was lying upside-down on the bed, head hanging down the end, come and lube cooling on his trembling abdomen while Aziraphale was adjusting his collar modestly. Crowley licked his kiss-swollen lips, trying to speak, but all he managed was a prolonged groan.

“I didn’t catch that,” Aziraphale said, clearly proud of himself for fucking him senseless. The dripping dildo stood on the bedside table like incriminating evidence, but Aziraphale looked perfectly put-together. He combed his feathery-white hair back as if he never asked Crowley to tug at it while he sucked him off. That was during the second round.

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth; it caught on his fangs. They had a tendency to come out when he was losing himself. He could feel scales under the ropes as well, over his ribcage and down his back, his thighs; he was aware his nails had gotten quite sharp. Aziraphale was kind enough not to miracle away the claw marks from his thighs. Was wearing them with pride.

“Bollocks,” Crowley said. Aziraphale peered at Crowley’s lap and smiled to himself. “I needed that.”

“I could tell. Feeling better?”

Crowley blinked at the ceiling through the sheer canopy; the lanterns hanging from there, the specks of dust doing a slowdance. Feathers, white and black. (That was round three or four.)

“It’s about God,” Crowley said. Sensed Aziraphale still. “Started with the usual meltdown about the body swap, how much we risked. How She didn’t help. Not even when we needed it the most.”

“You can’t say She didn’t.”

“That’s right. That’s the worst part. Never knowing for sure—” He got up to his elbows, squinted at Aziraphale. Anyone would thank the Lord for having such a stunning, brilliant creature in their bed. Crowley knew better. “You’ve talked to Her, yeah? When you gave away the sword. You heard Her voice.”

Aziraphale bit his lips, looking as lost as Crowley’s ever seen him. “I thought I did. You cannot be certain, of course. You hear _a_ voice. There’s _some_ light shining on you. But you don’t hear it with your ears, and you don’t see it with your eyes. It’s—sublime. She’s a being of faith; She’ll never give tangible evidence of Her presence. You need belief to sense Her in any way; you _have_ to believe.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Do you believe,” Crowley asked him, “that something could’ve—happened to Her?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Suppose it was Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, whomever. Supposed they killed Her.”

Aziraphale frowned, and squared his shoulders, physically recoiling from the idea. Crowley nudged him with his toes apologetically. Aziraphale patted his foot, absentmindedly, then stroked his leg. “I don’t think She can be killed,” he said.

“There’s got to be an _explanation_. God is dead, or asleep, or She just _really_ hates us all.”

“There’s a worse option,” Aziraphale remarked.

“Is there? What, She never existed?”

“She did. She does. And she’s just indifferent.”

There was a lull again. Aziraphale kept caressing his leg.

“Please don’t start questioning,” Crowley said. “I’m just rambling. You know me.” 

“Don’t be scared, dear. I won’t Fall.”

“You cannot _know_ that. That’s the point. One minute you’re adding your final touches to a nebula, maybe thinking something along the lines of ‘I wish I had some days off, Lucifer’s got a point, I’m working my feathered arse off here and nobody’s gonna give _me_ credit,’ and the next minute She smites you down.” 

“That wasn’t Her, was it?” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Sure, She gave the orders to Michael to do my actual smiting, but—” His tongue halted. “ _Oh_.”

“Angelic Civil War,” Aziraphale explained. “Or a coup, however you wish to call it. All in Her name, yes; but we just established nobody _ever_ talks to Her.”

“Oh,” Crowley said again. He felt his eyes well up. It was stupid. But, well. Better realise stuff late than never. And it didn’t really matter, did it? Not when Aziraphale hugged him, whispered _I’m sorry_ into his hair. Not when he caressed his back, and he felt the comforting pull of the ropes. Not when they were all alone on Earth, in each other’s embrace, the happiest they could ever be, and for now, safe.

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, and wept with rage and relief.

*

 _Agnostic theism aside_ , Crowley mused, _life’s a party_ _when you have a python around your shoulders and you’re drinking bubble tea_.

He had a python around his shoulders. She was called Monty.

He was drinking matcha milk tea.

Life was, indeed, a party.

He didn’t have to think much, just sip on his tea and talk to Monty while Aziraphale chatted with a stocky, fair-haired fellow in an Oxford Saints tee, name tag saying G. Johnson, although it should’ve read Dowling. Poor bastard should’ve been the one throwing a July Fourth party, while _Adam_ should’ve been exhibiting tropical fish at Exotic Pets Expo instead of him _,_ and Warlock, Warlock _Young_ should’ve been in Tadfield with his _family_.

He slurped on the matcha, loudly, trying to catch the last pearls. The exhibition hall was packed, and smelled of sawdust and water, the rot of fruit, and was filled with strange animal sounds.

“I mean, family’s not about blood,” he told Monty. “So really, am I to blame? Your momma’s here. She’s not even the same species, but she’s still family.”

Monty’s mother, a lovely old Cuban lady who travelled all the way here to meet fellow pets-that-could-kill-you enthusiasts was eyeing Crowley with a faint hint of concern. “She doesn’t usually take to strangers,” she said. “Maybe it’s the hissing. She must wonder how you can do it so well.”

 _I wish I could understand what she says_ , Monty told him via smell, vibration and thought, the way she coiled around his neck. _There’s a human noise she keeps making at me. “Good girl.” Can you tell me what it means?_

 _Oh, I think you know what it means,_ Crowley communicated back. _Look at you, fishing for compliments. Snaking. Whatever_. In a human tongue, he added, “Keep up the belly rubs, she loves them.”

“And who’s _this_ little hooligan?” He overheard Aziraphale, who was peering into the aquarium on Johnson’s desk with hands folded behind his back, too polite for his own good. He wouldn’t be caught dead tapping on glass, not even if he were on a scuttled submarine and his life (sort of) depended on it. “Oh, look at that _attitude_.”

Johnson gushed like the compliment just won him a million pounds. Aziraphale had that effect on people. “He’s a real troublemaker, that one is,” he said proudly. 

Crowley must’ve looked at their direction with an evident amount of longing, because Monty’s mum said, “It’s okay, you can bring her over there, she loves a little walk. Just get her back in ten?”

“Ta,” Crowley said, and, _she’s proud of you, huh? Loves to show you around. Fancy that. Bet it feels real good, being loved by the person or whatever responsible for you—_

 _It does feel good_ , Monty told him smugly.

“Cherish it,” Crowley hissed, and slithered towards Aziraphale with the same desperation he did in Eden. God be damned: he had somebody to love, and somebody to love him. He sneaked up behind him and nonchalantly licked into his ear just to show how much annoying Aziraphale for all eternity meant to him. Aziraphale jumped with an adorable little yelp.

“Darling, really—” he muttered, flustered but pleased, a blush creeping into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, and announced ceremoniously, “This is Mr. Johnson—” (Mr. Johnson grinned at being a _Mister_ ) “and his gorgeous collection of fish.”

“Nice,” Crowley said in a fashion that implied he didn’t find many things deserving of such high praise, but the fish ranked high on his coolness-scale. Johnson was tickled pink.

If nobody was looking after the stupid humans and rest of the beasts to make sure their struggles meant _something_ , Crowley was going to do it. Give it his best shot.

He patted Monty’s head and squinted at the plecos and cichlids.

“Look at that vampire tetra,” he said. “Bet they could beat my arse.”

“Oh, they’d mop the floor with you,” Aziraphale agreed, giving him a cheeky smile that made Crowley fall in love with him all over again: every crinkle around his eyes, which were bright with glee, despite all the things he’d seen. Crowley pressed a kiss to his shoulder, took his hand. Listened to Johnson ramble about the relative aggression of his fish while cuddling an angel. 

Nobody was watching them.

They lived in a deserted universe that had nearly ended, one that still had a bounty on it by Heaven and Hell.

Crowley could make his peace with that lingering threat in exchange for one more minute of Aziraphale’s company, the taste of tea, and brutish fish swimming. Aziraphale took the opportunity to run a careful finger down his back, quite unobserved, as if he was counting the vertebrae; but Crowley knew he was mapping out a place for hitches, a new, dazzling design of ropes for when they got home, every touch a promise of reward. Crowley smiled a secret smile, and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings:** dealing with PTSD / anxiety attack / graphic crucifixion mention / vague reference to Crowley’s canon-typical suicidal tendencies / light-hearted role-play where Crowley pretends to be Aziraphale’s captive / body transformation (Crowley is mentioned to sometimes have scales on his skin, fangs and sharp nails)
> 
> I was asked in the comment section of my last Good Omens story to write a rope bondage fic, so I Tried My Best. Many thanks to the talented @[brainracoons](https://twitter.com/artbyreality) and @[@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for their invaluable input on the kinky parts, and of course, the beta-reading 💕
> 
> The title is a reference to Patron Saint of Queer Ships with Catholic Guilt, Hozier, and _Nina Cried Power_
> 
> For your reblogging consideration: here's the [AO3 feed link](https://ao3feed-goodomens.tumblr.com/post/186117161637/pull-on-your-ropes-if-you-love-being-free) and [a suggestive moodboard](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/186117153141/pull-on-your-ropes-if-you-love-being-free)


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